


Mairon's Gift

by imperialmadam



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Ableism, Ableist Language, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Physical Disability
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-14 18:34:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29546613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imperialmadam/pseuds/imperialmadam
Summary: After Melkor is badly injured in his battle with Fingolfin, Mairon tries to help him. But he has to get past Melkor's pride first.
Relationships: Morgoth Bauglir | Melkor/Sauron | Mairon
Comments: 6
Kudos: 55





	Mairon's Gift

Melkor felt nothing but pain. Pain from the wounds Fingolfin had dealt him. Pain in his face where the eagle had slashed it open. And the renewed pain in his burned hands.

Fingolfin was dead, but that was the only comfort. If only his brother’s damned eagle hadn’t retrieved Fingolfin’s body. If Melkor could have raised it as a war banner, the enemy would see what crossing him meant. Now all he had to show for his battle were scars and weakness. Weakness was scorned in Angband and he had made it that way.

They’d seen him weak. They’d stared as he had leaned against the walls or supported himself with Grond. They’d turned away quickly when he’d glanced at them, busying themselves with tasks, but not offering to help. Either they were letting him keep his dignity or they despised his weakness. Melkor hoped it was the former.

_Tap, tap, tap._ The knock at the door pulled him from his gloom. He groaned but refused to reply.

“Lord Melkor? It’s Mairon.”

Still, Melkor refused to reply. _Please go away. Don’t see me like this._

“Don’t make me turn into a wolf, Melkor.”

He would, too. Any minute now, he’d be whining and scraping at the door.

“What do you want, Lieutenant?”

“I made you something that I think will help.”

Melkor wanted to tell him that nothing would help, but he knew how persistent Mairon could be. He usually liked that about him. Usually.

“Give me a minute.”

_All right,_ Melkor thought. _You can walk the few steps to the door._ He got up. Stepped forwards with his injured foot. Now for the hard part. He raised his right foot, and even though he held on to the table, he put too much weight on his injury. Pain shot through him. He stumbled hard, fell against the table, tried to grab the candlestick to save himself but only succeeded in knocking it off and overturning the table as he collapsed.

“My lord? I’m coming in!”

"No, don’t...” Melkor managed to say before the door burst into flame and crumbled into ash, revealing his lieutenant.

“I hope you are going to replace that door.”

“You shouldn’t bolt it,” Mairon scolded. He crossed the room and held out his hand. Melkor took Mairon’s arm and allowed Mairon to help him to his feet.

“Your gift had better be worth it,” he grumbled.

Mairon righted the table and replaced the things on it while Melkor sat on the bed, breathing hard and holding his side. He frowned at the slightly wet feeling and raised his shirt. Sticky, dark blood was oozing from the wound.

“Mairon!”

“What - oh, looks like you broke some stitches. Never mind. I’ll fix that. Meanwhile, have a look at what I made you. Now, where’s the needle and thread?”

While Mairon re-stitched Melkor’s wound, Melkor studied the object Mairon had given him. It was a black steel rod about half his height with an oddly curved and twisted dragon’s head at one end. Two orange jewels were inserted into either side of the head, like eyes. It was beautifully crafted, but that was only to be expected from Mairon. “What is it for?”

“It’s to help you walk,” Mairon responded. “I noticed you leaning on Grond when you returned, so - ”

“You would have me walk with a stick like an elderly mortal?” Melkor demanded.

“I would have you not be in pain with every step!” Mairon snapped.

“I can walk just fine.”

”Clearly.”

“Don’t get sarcastic with me, Lieutenant,” Melkor said angrily, but then he sighed and ran a hand over his scarred face. “I’m sorry. I like it. But I can’t use it.” His voice cracked, and tears came to his eyes. He turned his face away hastily, not wanting Mairon to see.

“My lord?” Mairon’s voice was soft, tender.

“It hurts,” Melkor whispered. “Everything _hurts_. My hands hurt and now this. A mere elf brought me to this state and, and if I use it...everyone will see.”

Mairon frowned thoughtfully as he finished stitching Melkor’s wound and wiped the blood from his fingers. He then picked up the comb and began to work the knots from Melkor’s hair. Melkor relaxed at Mairon’s attention even as he waited for an answer.

“I know it hurts, and that’s why I made something to aid you. I don’t know what I can do about your hands, but I can do something to make walking easier - as long as you stop being stubborn.”

Melkor’s temper flared. “Stubborn? Do you think I stay here because I want to? Do you think I _enjoy_ this? I want to get up, go downstairs, command the troops again, as much as you want me to. But I can’t use a stick. You might as well have branded ‘cripple’ on my forehead.”

“So what are you going to do? Whether you like it or not, Fingolfin _did_ cripple you. Will you walk unaided? You’ve seen how successful that is. Stay here? No one’s going to think you’re capable of ruling if they never see you. You need to show everyone you are still the Lord of Angband. Some of the orcs think I should take over - ”

“What?” said Melkor, sharply.

“I wouldn’t, of course. I told them put such seditious thoughts out of their minds unless they wished to end up imprisoned in the dungeons. But as you said, a mere elf brought you to this. It doesn’t look good. And a lord who spends all his time in bed wallowing in self-pity is no lord at all.”

"I can stay on the throne, then,” Melkor retorted.

“See what I mean,” Mairon sighed. “Stubborn. As stubborn as this knot. Have you actually combed this part in the last three hundred years?”

_You only care because you’re a total perfectionist,_ Melkor thought.

“Look,” said Mairon. “You know what the orcs are like about strength. What do you think will look worse - using a stick to aid you, or being unable to get around at all?”

“Fine,” Melkor finally conceded. His lieutenant was right, as usual. “I’ll use it.” He made to get up, but Mairon stopped him.

“I’m not done here.”

Mairon finally finished combing the tangles from Melkor’s hair, which took an excessive amount of time; Mairon started from the _ends_ , and anyway, Melkor thought he looked presentable twenty minutes ago. Though he had to admit, his hair did look very smooth and glossy, and he felt somewhat better.

“Do you want me to put this up, my lord?” Mairon asked. “It might be easier to practise with the cane if it’s not in your face.”

“Yes, sure,” said Melkor. “Don’t do any intricate braids, though."

Mairon acquiesced and pinned Melkor’s hair up in a simple bun. "You should wear it up more often, Master. You look better with it out of your face.” His gaze on Melkor’s face was thoughtful, though, like he was studying a flaw in a gemstone.

“Really?” Melkor asked. “Isn’t my face rather repulsive now?”

“No,” said Mairon. “I was thinking you carry your scars well. Besides,” he grinned, “ _I’m_ the Abhorred. Don’t steal my title from me, now.”

“Of course not, _Sauron_.”

“Shall we test it now?” Mairon asked.

“I suppose so.” Melkor got up and planted the tip of his cane on the floor in front of him. He noticed that holding it was oddly comfortable. He held Grond well enough, but even with gauntlets, his burn scars always ached more than usual from gripping it. The grip on this cane seemed designed for his hands. However, Melkor could see a problem. The tip seemed too small. How in Arda could it support him?

_Mairon made it,_ he reminded himself. _Have you ever known Mairon to make something that doesn’t work?_ Melkor stepped forwards, but pain shot through his injured foot again and he only just caught himself. The second time he used the wrong foot, staggered, and... _It hurts it hurts please don’t fall not in front of Mairon..._ He didn’t fall.

“I’ve got you,” said Mairon.

“Let go!” Melkor snarled. “I don’t need you carrying me!”

“Far be it from me to let my master fall,” said Mairon, and Melkor winced at the hurt in his voice.

“Mairon,” he sighed. “You’re trying to help, I know. But the only way I’m getting around is if that chair sprouts wheels.”

“Hmm,” said Mairon, thoughtfully. “That’s an idea... Try again. You will improve with practice, I promise.”

Melkor took a few more shaky steps, with Mairon close by just in case. While he occasionally stumbled, he was able to save himself with his cane. Once, Mairon needed to catch him again, and this time, he didn’t complain. Eventually, he got the knack of keeping his weight off his injury by transferring most of it between his good leg and his cane, and was able to walk, if not easily, then at least without excruciating pain.

“How is the grip?” Mairon asked. “The twisted design should be more comfortable for your hands than a normal one.”

“Is that why the dragon looks like it’s had an unfortunate accident?” said Melkor. “It is fine. Mairon, I - “

Melkor paused, struck with the magnitude of what Mairon had given him. He’d been resigned to barely moving from his throne and every step being agony when he did move. Mairon could have let him rot there. He could even have usurped him; apparently he would have had support. Instead, he’d done the next best thing to healing him. He’d given him the ability to walk. Melkor would have got down on his knees before him if his wounds had allowed it.

”Thank you, Mairon,” he said sincerely.

“I’m always happy to serve, Master,” said Mairon. He was unable to keep the surprise and delight out of his voice and Melkor felt slightly guilty.

“You gave me a great gift. You have shown me great loyalty. I don’t appreciate you nearly enough.”

“Well, that can change.”

“My impudent lieutenant. Come here.”

Melkor pulled Mairon into an embrace and kissed his forehead. Mairon rested his head on Melkor’s chest and Melkor shifted him slightly to the side, away from his injuries. They remained like that, holding each other tenderly. Mairon closed his eyes in bliss and Melkor stroked Mairon’s red hair and smiled. He felt truly happy for the first time since Fingolfin.

“Well, I think it’s time to show my face before the orcs have more seditious thoughts,” said Melkor, after a few minutes.

“And I should replace your door,” murmured Mairon, reluctantly breaking their embrace.

“Indeed. You don’t want all of Angband to hear you screaming my name.”

“Melkor...” said Mairon, blushing.

Melkor put on his black ceremonial robes and the crown of Silmarils (he ignored Mairon’s grimace; he would not start an argument now), took up his dragon-headed cane and looked and felt like the Lord of Angband once again. There would be bad days. Days when it would be too painful to get out of bed or move from his throne. But with Mairon’s gift, not every day would be like that. Today was not going to be. He headed for the doorway, Mairon following, preparing to address the troops.

The Dark Lord was back.


End file.
